


At the Pass

by Inner Voice (inner_v0ice)



Category: Mulan (1998)
Genre: Canon Genderbending, F/M, M/M, Unreliable Narrator
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2008-12-25
Updated: 2008-12-25
Packaged: 2018-01-25 02:52:26
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,291
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1627724
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/inner_v0ice/pseuds/Inner%20Voice
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>What was it about the boy that drew Shang to him, lately?</p>
            </blockquote>





	At the Pass

**Author's Note:**

> Written for Ali Wildgoose

 

 

The trail up to the Tung Shao Pass was steep and treacherous, and Captain Li Shang took care to look back every few minutes to check on his men. Looking at the ragged band trailing after him, he was painfully proud of how well they were holding up. The snow was knee-deep and they looked exhausted and sad and numb from the cold _(just like he was oh gods they were the only ones left what do I do now Father)_ but not a one of them was grumbling or complaining. He wouldn't lie to himself, they were far from parade-perfect, but they had what counted.

One figure caught his eye in particular--Ping was at the rear as usual, in charge of the wagon. He was too far away for Shang to make out his face, but his shoulders were slumped and his head bowed. Shang could see in his mind's eye what Ping's expression must be: serious and sad, with a hint of horror at the edges of his too-wide eyes. The same look he had had since they found the burned-out village _(and why do I remember his face when everything else about that place is a blur of snow and fire and grief--)_. Shang realized that he was staring at the small figure in the snow, and hastily turned to face forward again. But his thoughts still lingered on Ping.

What was it about the boy that drew Shang to him, lately? In the beginning, Fa Ping had been nothing but a thorn in his side, the worst of a hopeless lot. A soft pretty useless boy that someone had been foolish enough to conscript. Shang could see nothing of the famous Fa Zhou in him, and had burned with shame on the old general's behalf that such a great man had the misfortune of having such a son. "Pretty" had really been the best description for him then: delicate features with a soft and timid cast that belonged nowhere near a battlefield; delicate hands with infuriatingly womanish mannerisms, forever flying up to hide his face or shield himself from an imagined blow. He was impossible to teach--Shang could see that he was trying hard, but the boy clearly had no talent whatsoever for soldiering, and would be a liability to the rest of the troop if Shang had allowed him to remain.

One night, he had handed the boy the reins of his horse and told him to go home, and Ping's face had fallen in his old timid way. That was supposed to be the end of it.

The next morning, he was greeted by a different Ping sitting perched on top of the pole in the center of the camp. This new Ping was all smiling confidence and unshakable determination. His gaze was steady and resolute instead of shifting nervously as it did before, and his hand and his sword soon followed. He was more than teachable now, picking up on lessons fast enough to make up for his previous fumbling. The sudden change seemed to spread to the rest of the troop as well--Shang had almost given up on teaching them anything more than how to survive the enemy's first sword-stroke; then suddenly all the men were doing things _right_ more often than not and _learning_ their lessons instead of staring in confusion. It was the most amazing thing that had happened to Captain Li Shang in his short career, and at the forefront of it all was Ping, smiling with a fierce glint in his eye.

After that, Ping was no longer quite pretty. His features were still delicate, but his new confidence firmed them and banished the girlish softness. Instead of fear or embarrassment, determination shone from him, making every line of his face and body as graceful and strong as the brushstroke of a master calligrapher. _(and why are you thinking of his face and body?)_. In practice matches, Ping was no longer stumbling and hopeless, but a joy to watch with his flashing eyes and his feet sweeping up in a swift blur of kicks, and if Shang had to choose a word for what Ping was now _(and why had he already chosen?)_ , it would be "lovely."

Shang shook his head with an unsettled little smile. It was no use trying to hide from it; he knew _exactly_ why he found himself watching Ping, riding near Ping, smiling at Ping's every accomplishment day by day. This...was not something unknown in the army, or so he had been told. He remembered his father-- _(in memory he's alive and well and I almost believe that this is the real Father and not the half-glimpsed broken bloody thing in the snow--)_

_(Deep breath. Blink the blur out of your eyes and feel one tear spill slowly down your cheek. Let it freeze there rather than let the men see you wipe your eye.)_

He remembered his father telling him about it the night before he was given command of the troop. They were drinking wine together after dinner, and his father was passing on whatever bits of advice he thought Shang might need. His theme for the night was that no matter how well Shang had done in school, the real army was different. The last thing he brought up, with a slightly awkward cough, had been the matter of companionship. At school, in the city, he said, there were always the teahouses and the dancing girls in the entertainment quarter. But in the camp and on the road, when the days and nights were lonely and a friend was one's most treasured possession--Father cleared his throat and went on to explain, and Shang had felt his face flaming right up to his ear-tips. Father had laughed at the look on his face and told him that he would learn soon enough about this new kind of love.

And indeed, he had learned without knowing it at first, just by watching Ping grow into a warrior. And if he wasn't greatly mistaken, Ping had learned as well. He would have to be blind to miss the stars in Ping's eyes when the lad looked at him, and the way the Ping's gaze lingered on him sometimes when the lad thought he wasn't looking _(and it's a little nice to know that he's not the only one caught up whatever-this-is)_. 

The two of them had never touched outside of sparring or brief touches on the shoulder and arm, but he had seen Ping's face back at the village. It couldn't have been clearer if he'd shouted that he wished he could comfort Shang somehow. Perhaps he had wanted to embrace Shang, and be embraced in return. And perhaps it wouldn't be such a bad thing if Shang allowed it. He remembered Ping's hand on his shoulder, and the rush of comfort from that simple touch. Just to have a living hand touch him and remind him that even in that place of death, life went on. Just to have a beloved face look on him and remind him that even after losing so much, not everything worth loving in the world was gone.

What if he allowed more than a touch? What if he allowed Ping to hold him tonight? He remembered Ping's hands holding the sad little doll. A woman's tenderness in his hands, still, but a man's strength too. Shang thought that Ping might have that tenderness and strength with him, too; and the thought eased his heart.

 _Yes,_ he thought to himself. _Tonight, after we're over the pass. I'll ask him into my tent, and we'll drink together, and maybe after that, something more. Tonight._

 


End file.
